thorneduprose

Here he was again at the diner. You couldn't help staring. It wasn't hard to miss him. He was probably the biggest man you'd ever seen.
It didn't help that he had blue skin, horns, and red eyes. You should have been scared.
Instead, you were intrigued and drawn in. You didn't know what the hell had gotten into you. Just that you couldn't stop staring. Your heart wouldn't stop soaring to the skyscrapers. It was a terrifyingly good high. You tried to act normal, but all you could ever get out was:

"Detective Abrams? Coffee?"

"Hm? Yes."

It used to be nearly every morning he would come in, order a coffee, and read a newspaper. But now he was mostly coming at night. The night waitress Edith had started to complain.

"That demon guy's giving me the heebie jeebies. Can I switch with you?"

You gladly obliged. You get to have barely any orders to bring out, and you could have your favorite customer all to yourself.

During these nightly visits, he would bring in an odd large book. One that never left his sight. He'd read that instead of the paper. Now instead of sipping on his coffee, he'd take large gulps. As he gulped down his coffee, his eyes would scan the room for any anomalies.

Intense scarlet red eyes glared back at you during these scans.

He finally began to notice your staring. Whether it was due to the near emptiness of the diner at night or his new demeanor, he now knows you watch him very closely.

You had to tell him.

He noticed your staring.

You couldn't hide it anymore.

You couldn't deny it.

You had a crush on him.

You shouldn't have. Considering how you were raised. In a small insular town that chased out or killed anything and anyone dealing with the occult. Your father's ranting about demons taking our money and corrupting American society came to mind. Your devout mother would have had a cow if she knew you wanted to go ask a "demon" out. Once you decided to go to New York, she insisted on giving you a cross necklace as a parting gift, despite you having stopped going to church. You rubbed it back and forth between your fingers, thinking about the situation.

Maybe it was because of how you were raised in that small boring town that the forbidden and strange enticed you with its exoticism. The reason you found yourself living in a city called "The Cursed Apple" of all places to go.

You accepted the crush. But that was the easy part. The hard part would be actually building up the nerve to talk to him.

Abrams sauntered out right as your shift ended. You threw off your apron and caught yourself behind him, following the smoke trails.

The sign of the bar read 'Jezebels' in bright neon lights above a stained glass window. This shouldn't have been a big deal. Plenty of women your age spent their nights at the various former speakeasies of the Cursed Apple. It was normal, you repeated to yourself. Yet, deep down, you felt like a feeble caterpillar crawling into the mouth of a venus flytrap as you pushed through the door.

You could just barely see Abrams through the crowd, hunched over at the bar on a stool chatting with a fiery Ixian bartender. You couldn't hear anything being said over jazz music and whistling of the men at the female singer in the split-cut dress. You could tell that Abrams was in a dour mood compared to the man serving his drink, shaking his head while talking. The bartender poured a drink for Abrams, patted his shoulder, and went on to serve other bar patrons drinks.

You dodged several dancers and a few tipsy people who were eager to chat with anyone about nothing. The bar stool Abrams was seated on had two empty stools to each side. It was crowded, but it seemed most people wanted to keep their distance from him.

You inhaled and clutched your necklace. As you approached the bar, you thought about turning around and leaving. Forgetting you ever came here. That you ever followed a guest to a bar. That you ever had a cr-

"It's you."

Abrams had turned to face you. Was he expecting you?

No backing out now.

"You a new friend of Abrams?" The Ixian bartender asked. "You're a friend of mine then. Name's Infernus. What can I get you, sweetie?"

"I usually don't drink." You stammer out flattening the skirt you wore as you sat on the stool next to Abrams. "I only know that I don't like the taste of beer."

"Bee's Knees it is." The bartender turned around and grabbed the tools he needed.

Abrams didn't take his eyes off you, sipping casually at his glass. Why are you here? He couldn't think of any honest reason you would be following him around after switching to the night shift. Surely there were better men for you to chase around.

Infernus pushed the drink towards you. You weren't sure exactly what a Bee's Knees was. You grabbed the cocktail glass by its stem and examined the yellow liquid. It almost looked like lemonade.

"You sure you can handle that?"

You noticed Abrams was already on a third brown drink, judging by the empty glasses to his side. Other people around you were tipping their heads back and downing cups of clear liquid. Vodka? Gin? You barely knew your drinks but you figured that was how it was done with this one as well. You didn't want him to think less of you. You could handle a simple drink like this. This was a simple drink, right?

"Of course," You held up the drink in a "cheers" gesture. Abrams narrowed his eyes at this but slowly returned the gesture with his own glass.

Clink

You downed the drink like a cup of ice water on a hot summer day. A burn traveled down your neck, stinging your throat, and your lungs gave way to a cough.

After that, everything became a blur of half-remembered scenes.
You knew you had managed to take a sip of some of Abrams' drink. Then he quickly downed his to prevent the complete theft of it.

You remember how big his hand was compared to yours when he had grabbed it.

You asked for whatever Abrams had just downed. Infernus obliged laughing but Abrams took the rest of that drink as well.

Did he touch your hair? Or did you touch his?
You felt a strong hand on your back guide you downstairs and to the nearest teleporter station.

"My place?"

"S-suuure."